


Who Do You Belong To?

by DarylDixonGrimes



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Cum shot, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hand Job, M/M, Ravioli, Rickyl, Smut, Weapons Kink, a little touch of fluff, anal penetration, bottom!daryl, but seriously weapons kink, dominant rick, fuck each other, fuck plots, hardly a plot, like a cotton ball's worth, like if you're not into that just nope right out of here, submissive Daryl, this whole story is weapons kink, top!rick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl's hair is irritating Rick, so he decides to give it a trim himself, discovering a new little kink along the way that he's eager to explore with his submissive little hunter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Do You Belong To?

The little house they had holed up in for the night seemed to have been untouched since long before the apocalypse. Beds were made, the table was set for dinner, and the only thing that seemed out of place was the fine layer of dust that had settled onto everything.  
  
“Poor bastards even had a casserole ready in the fridge,” Daryl said, pushing his hair back out of his face and shining his flashlight into its depths.  
  
“Jesus, Daryl, shut that,” Rick said, covering his nose with his arm.  
  
“Sorry,” he said. “Just makin sure there's nothing useful. Figured people this damn clean might be the bottled water type.”  
  
Rick pushed the fridge door closed and helped him check the rest of the kitchen for supplies.

This was their first night out of Alexandria together and the first stop they had made. Aaron had injured himself on their last recruiting run, and Rick had been going stir-crazy inside the walls, so he asked Deanna for a week off to head out with Daryl. Anything to get away. Anything to escape the eyes of all the people who looked at him now like he might snap and go on a killing spree at any moment.

“Chili or raviolis?” Daryl asked, holding up two dusty cans. It was one of the unspoken rules of their relationship: Rick always got first choice of the spoils.  
  
“Ravioli,” he said, and Daryl tossed him the can, blowing a chunk of hair out of his face after he did. God, that hair was driving Rick crazy.  
  
He hadn't minded so much when it had started getting a little long, gave him something to hold onto while he pounded Daryl relentlessly into the thin prison mattress, but it had gotten just plain unruly as of late, a wild rose bush just begging for a proper pruning.  
  
Hmm...  
  
Rick finished his can of cold ravioli and waited until Daryl had shoveled the last of the chili into his mouth before he spoke.  
  
“You're getting a hair cut tonight,” he said. Rick was no stylist, but he figured someone else could always clean it up later. The important thing was that at least half of that shit had to go.  
  
“No I ain't,” Daryl said, dropping the can down on the dusty table. There was no point in throwing it away. Who gave a shit really? They weren't sticking around.  
  
“Excuse me,” Rick said, tilting his head a little. “Did that sound like a fucking request?”  
  
“I like it, Rick.”

“You like having hair in your face when you're trying to shoot?” Rick was already up and walking toward Daryl's side of the dining room table, boots moving almost soundlessly across the stone floor. He looked like a tiger creeping through the tall grass, prowling and ready to pounce.

Daryl faltered a little, watching Rick a little on edge—more wary than afraid. They had a relationship, a long one that had started somewhere after Daryl had gotten hurt at Hershel's farm (not that it had culminated into anything tangible until after Lori died). It was a relationship with all kinds of ground rules, one with safe words and a whole heap of trust. 

“Maybe,” Daryl said. Rick grabbed hold of his hair and yanked his head back, pulling a sound out from somewhere deep within the other man that was a cross between a cry and a moan.  
  
“What if I was a walker?” Rick asked, holding him tight and nipping a little at his neck. “What if I was someone who wanted you dead?”

“Rick...”

“Who's hair is this, Daryl?" Rick asked, tugging Daryl's head a little as he spoke. "Who do you belong to?”

Rick watched the other man's chest heave, watched the way Daryl's worn and patched jeans slowly rose right above his crotch. 

“Yours. It's yours. I'm yours.”

“Yes you are.” Rick leaned down and kissed him hungrily. God he had missed being able to get Daryl alone. They'd managed a few quick moments here and there, mostly hurried quickies in a dark corner with Rick's hand tight over Daryl's mouth. But the people of Alexandria lived in a damn soap opera, always watching out of windows, eager to gossip about every fucking thing they could.

“Give me your knife,” Rick demanded. He had his own strapped on his holster belt, but he knew Daryl's was sharper and cleaner. The hunter practically worshiped it as much as his crossbow, babying it and inspecting it whenever he could. Daryl pulled it free from the sheath and handed it over without argument. 

“Do you even know what you're doing?” Daryl asked. That was another unspoken rule of their relationship: Daryl had to bend to Rick's will, but he could backtalk all he wanted, because Rick fucking loved it. It riled them both up, made everything so much better.

“I'll fuck it up less if you sit still,” Rick said, reaching around to put his hand on one of Daryl's bouncing knees. The hunter went motionless.  
  
Rick grabbed a lock of dark hair, rolling it between his fingers while he tried to decide just how much he wanted gone. Figuring it would be better to leave it just a little longer than he wanted so someone could fix it if need be, he slipped the knife under the piece in his hand and sliced a few inches clean off, watching the strands fall, a few catching on the wings of Daryl's vest. He dusted them off.  
  
The constable worked slowly, trying to keep things even as he made his way around Daryl's head, dark strands of hair pooling on the floor around his boots. Daryl's erection didn't waver, the ever-growing wet spot in the hunter's jeans never out of Rick's periphery.  
  
He left the bottom layer right over Daryl's neck for last. Picking up a section of it to cut, Rick slid the knife underneath it, the metal grazing Daryl's skin. The hunter shivered, and Rick saw a little twitch in the tent of his jeans.  
  
Well, that was something new to play with. Or was it just a fluke? Rick let the knife touch the hunter again, grazing it across his neckline, and Daryl dug his fingertips into the flesh of his thighs.  
  
Oh, yes. 

Pretending he didn't notice, Rick finished up and took a step back to admire his handiwork, wiping the knife off on the leg of his jeans. The cut was a little messier than he would've liked, but not too awful, nothing Carol couldn't fix in five minutes. Nothing bad enough that it warranted asking... _her_. He'd done enough damage to his and Daryl's relationship already. 

“You done?” Daryl asked, itching at the back of his neck. 

“Did I say I was?”

Daryl grumbled a little, but he leaned back in the chair, patiently waiting for whatever else Rick wanted to do to him. Such a perfect little fucking sub when he wanted to be, which happened to be most of the time. 

The former deputy approached, testing the weight of the knife in his hand. One hand on Daryl's shoulder, he turned the sharp edge away from Daryl's neck and scraped the smooth side of it against the flesh on the back of the hunter's neck, watching for a reaction. Daryl visibly squirmed, exhaling sharply.  
  
“You got a thing for knives, Daryl?” Rick asked.  
  
The hunter didn't answer.  
  
“I asked you a question, Daryl,” Rick said, reaching down and tweaking one of his nipples roughly through the black button up he wore under his vest. Daryl bucked up, crying out softly.  
  
“Maybe.”  
  
“Mhm,” Rick said, ghosting the sharp tip of the knife from the place behind Daryl's ear all the way down to his collar, leaving a faint pink line but careful not even come close to actually breaking the skin. Daryl mm'd softly.  
  
“Didn't know til now,” the hunter said, sighing as Rick continued to lightly scrape his skin with the blade.  
  
“Want you naked on the bed,” Rick said, “and take your knife holster off for me. Put it on the night stand.”

Daryl got up obediently, grabbing his crossbow and walking toward the master bedroom at the end of the hall, already starting on his buttons while he did. Rick followed slowly, taking stock of what they had, thinking of all the ways he could play with this thrilling new development.  
  
He found Daryl bare in the bed, the dusty duvet stripped off and thrown in the corner. He always had to pause to admire the hunter like this. He remembered how much trust it had taken in the beginning to get Daryl completely naked. It was a battle hard-won through reassurances and gentle coaxing, but in the end, it had been worth it. He was breathtakingly beautiful, scars and all.  
  
Rick undid his belt and dropped it on the mattress beside his lover before sinking down onto it as well.  
  
“Eyes closed.”

Daryl shut them. 

It was hard to choose exactly where to start, but Rick ultimately decided on Daryl's left ankle, running the dull side of the knife all the way up his leg, careful always not to do any real damage. That rule was firmly established. Slapping was allowed. Spanking was allowed. But breaking the skin in any way was wholly in the no territory, and Rick more than understood why as he brushed the cool metal over a faint white scar on Daryl's inner thigh.  
  
“Fuck,” Daryl sighed, licking his lips. “I never would've thought...”

“Me neither,” Rick said. He pressed the flat of the blade against one of Daryl's nipples and then ran it down his chest and stomach, slowly swirling it around the hunter's belly button. Even in the dim light of a half-moon filtering in through the curtains, he could see the goosebumps on Daryl's arms and the clear precum leaking out of the slit of his cock. 

“Be very still,” Rick warned, watching to make sure Daryl had gotten the message. Every one of the hunter's limbs tensed in anticipation, and Rick could make out the vague shape of his abs under the soft flesh of his stomach.  
  
Holding Daryl's cock with one of his hands so it didn't do anything of its own volition and cause an accident, Rick ran the back of the knife over Daryl's balls, lightly tracing the shape of each one and pressing it gently into the vague dip between them.  
  
The hunter moaned his name softly.  
  
“Who do you belong to?” Rick whispered.  
  
“You.”  
  
“That's right,” Rick said, dropping the knife on the bed and giving Daryl's neglected length a stroke before moving on, looking over the weapons surrounding them in the room. His eyes fell on the crossbow, leaning casually against the night stand. “Keep your eyes closed.”

He got up and walked around the bed, picking up the bow and looking it over. Carefully, he coaxed the strap free of its bindings, and then he leaned down, wrapping it around Daryl's wrists and one of the wooden dowels in the headboard. It wasn't a tight binding, and it was something the hunter could easily get out of—another clear-cut rule in their verbal contract. 

That was more practical than anything. If something went wrong in the middle of anything they were doing, Rick didn't want Daryl bound up and unable to defend himself. That was the kind of world they lived in, no matter how much they wanted to forget it during moments like these.  
  
But still, it was the thought that counted, and Daryl never tried to get loose, always pulling at the bindings just right so that they bit into his skin without coming free.  
  
“What is that?” Daryl asked, eyes still shut, his left thumb rubbing against leather around the opposite wrist.  
  
“The strap from your crossbow.”

Daryl groaned, hips rocking up just a little. 

“Yeah. Like being tied up with your own shit, huh?”

“More.”

“Ask nicely.” 

“More please.”

Rick looked at his holster. He had a fresh pair of handcuffs in there courtesy of his new job in Alexandria, his favorite red-handled machete, his own knife, and his gun. 

So many possibilities.  
  
He clicked open the snap on his gun holster and pulled out his Python—the Rolls Royce of revolvers, the weight of it comforting in his hand even then. Carefully, he unloaded it, dropping all of the bullets into his palm and laying them safely next to Daryl's knife holster.  
  
He'd fully cleaned the thing before he'd come out with Daryl, hadn't even needed to use it yet. It was perfectly shiny and free of gunpowder grime. And now he knew exactly how he wanted to dirty it up.  
  
“Open your mouth,” Rick said, teasing the barrel of the Colt along Daryl's cheek.  
  
“Is that your gun?” Daryl asked.

“Mhm. Look at me,” Rick said, and so Daryl did, his blue eyes quickly moving from Rick to the glint of silver pressed against his face. Daryl licked his lips.

“That's right,” Rick said, running gun around the opening of Daryl's mouth. “Like you mean it.”

Daryl flicked his tongue out, tentatively at first, like he was trying to get a feel for the sensation of the metal, hard and unforgiving in a way that Rick's flesh wasn't. He swirled his tongue around the end of the barrel, lapping a little at the pointed sight on top. 

“Perfect,” Rick said, palming once over the little ache of need within his jeans. “Keep going.”

Daryl took the barrel slowly into his mouth, tilting his head up as he slid his pink lips down around the nickel. His mouth had almost brushed the trigger when he gagged on it, water quickly welling up in his pretty blue eyes. 

“Gorgeous,” Rick said. Because it really was. He let Daryl keep going for a bit, bobbing up and down the length of the gun, working it over and choking more times than Rick bothered to count. Rick wiped away a stray drop of water that escaped the corner of the hunter's eye with his thumb before pulling the spit-soaked Colt out from between his lips.  
  
“Rick,” Daryl said, letting his head fall back onto a pillow flipped dust-side down, his messy short hair ruffling a bit with the motion.  
  
“Alright.”  
  
That was another unspoken rule they'd never needed to set in stone—when Daryl said Rick's name in that tone, he was at the limit of what he could stand without being touched.  
  
Rick dropped the Python on the bed next to Daryl's knife, opening one of the little leather cases on his holster and pulling out a small little half-empty bottle of lube.  
  
Squeezing a little onto his fingers, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to Daryl's brow before easing his hand up between Daryl's thighs. The hunter's legs parted easily for him—they knew the way well by now—and Rick roughly pushed a finger into Daryl's body, fully aware of how much force the hunter could take. He liked it hard. He liked the little burn of too-fast intrusion. But he had a limit too.  
  
One finger quickly became two as Daryl's body adjusted. But instead of going for their usual standard of three, Rick pulled them free. He had other plans tonight.  
  
He reached for the holster to Daryl's knife and slid the sharp end inside, folding the leather down so that the grip was free. Holding the sheathed blade tight, he lubed it up, stroking it the slick onto it while Daryl watched with hungry eyes. Finally, when Rick was satisfied with the way the hunter squirmed beneath him in need, he parted Daryl's ass and slipped the knife handle inside, immediately angling it toward his prostate.  
  
“Oh fuck,” Daryl groaned, low and quiet in his throat. He ground down against the intrusion, rocking his hips, and so Rick started to fuck him with it, nice and slow. “Ain't gonna take long, Rick.”  
  
“No, no. That won't work,” Rick said. He had too much to do still. Hell, he hadn't even unzipped his own jeans. He reached over and pulled the heavy metal handcuffs out of their case. Carefully, he looped one of the metal rings around the base of Daryl's erection, delighting a little in the way Daryl hissed at the cold as he tightened it slowly around his cock and balls, letting the other side rest gently on top of his curls.  
  
“Jesus,” Daryl said, looking down.  
  
“Think you can handle more?” Rick asked, jiggling the knife just a little, making Daryl's body give a small jolt.  
  
“Do I have a choice?” Daryl asked.  
  
“No,” Rick said. Of course, Daryl ultimately always had a choice. One word: “whiskey,” and Rick would stop everything immediately and without argument. Daryl had only ever needed it once. It was a violent fuck that came after their escape from Terminus, Rick trying to get out all of his rapidly-boiling aggression before he did something stupid, and even he had to admit looking back at it that he had gone at Daryl a little too hard.

“Go on then,” Daryl said, and Rick couldn't ignore the little edge to his voice or the way his sapphire eyes—more cobalt in this light—watched, waiting to see what he'd do next. Rick pulled the knife out and let it drop onto the mattress right between Daryl's thighs. 

The handle of his machete was bigger than the one on Daryl's weapon, not by much, but by enough that Daryl would definitely feel it. Quickly, Rick liberated it from his belt, sheath and all, and then he smothered the red grip with lube. Daryl inhaled and held his breath.  
  
“Look at you,” Rick said, wiping away a pretty substantial bead of precum with his thumb and rubbing it on Daryl's lips. “You want this so bad.” Holding the top of of the sheath, Rick lined up the handle and breached Daryl's body with it. The hunter didn't exhale until he had the entire length inside of him.  
  
“God,” Daryl breathed, chest heaving slowly.  
  
“Mhm. How bout you rock on that real slow for me?” Rick said. Daryl closed his eyes, nodding and biting his bottom lip, and then he slowly rolled his hips up and down off the mattress, moving against the intrusion and moaning quietly.  
  
“How's it feel?” Rick asked, admiring the way the dim light reflected off the pale skin of Daryl's stomach.  
  
“Hard,” Daryl said, licking his lips. “Good.”

“Mhm,” Rick said, grabbing the sheath and slowly working the machete handle in and out. Daryl groaned. 

“Ain't gonna last, Rick. Even with the... with...” Daryl glanced down at the shiny metal wrapped around his cock.  
  
“With what?” Rick asked. “Say it.” He picked up speed, roughly fucking Daryl with the slicked up red grip, crooking it slightly toward his most sensitive spot.

“Even with your- ah shit.” 

“I might let you if you say it,” Rick said, looking down at Daryl's engorged cock. Man, they were going to have to play more with cock rings. The thing was positively fucking swollen. Just a damn gorgeous sight.  
  
Daryl bit back a loud groan, wrists twisting in their bindings. He looked down at Rick, watching the motion of his arm.  
  
“Even with your handcuffs around my dick,” Daryl said.  
  
Rick closed his eyes and let his head fall back, the words washing over him. God, that was almost better than fucking sex. He pulled the handcuff key out of the pocket of his jeans and undid the side wrapped around Daryl's erection, accidentally catching and tugging out a couple of dark curls in the process.  
  
Daryl growled a little back in his throat.  
  
Rick made a note of it. He always made a note of the hurts—something he could go back to later when it was all over. He'd kiss the bruises, check on them and make sure they faded as they should. More importantly, he'd make sure Daryl knew he loved him, because he did. So very much.  
  
“Shh,” Rick said, wrapping his hand around the base of Daryl's cock. “Let's give you what you want.”  
  
“Need,” Daryl corrected.  
  
“I know.”  
  
Rick found a rhythm, sliding his hand up and down Daryl's length and matching it in time with the thrusts of the weapon into his body.  
  
“Can I?” Daryl asked, biting his lip, his forehead glistening with sweat.   
  
“Can you what?” Rick asked, squeezing a little on the upstroke.

“Can I cum?” Daryl squirmed, his body writhing, seemingly unsure of whether or not it wanted to push down onto the machete handle or buck up into Rick's hand. “Please.”

“Who do you belong to?” Rick asked, giving the machete a little twist. 

“You.”

“Then, yes.” 

Daryl held his breath, his whole body trembling gently, his stomach muscles curling and uncurling and going taut. There was a brief moment of completely silence other than the slick noises of the handle sliding in and out of his ass, and then the hunter came, groaning Rick's name, his cock twitching out little streams all over his stomach.  
  
“Perfect.” Rick pulled the machete out and dropped it on the floor, running a finger through the mess on Daryl's tummy and sliding it between the hunter's lips. Daryl sucked it off hungrily, his cheeks hollowing, his eyes locked on his lover's.  
  
Rick finished cleaning Daryl off on the sheet and then straddled his chest, slowly undoing his black jeans and freeing his own aching erection, before reaching up to pull the leather strap free from the hunter's wrists. He placed one of Daryl's hands right on his cock.   
  
“Rub it until you feel my cum on your pretty face," Rick ordered. 

“You gonna at least warn me?”

“Nope.”

“Bastard.” But Daryl licked his palm and wrapped his fingers around Rick's erection anyway, tugging it up and down the length, letting his other hand wander, kneading Rick's ass and massaging his balls. 

Rick wasn't going to be long himself, too damn turned after using almost every weapon in the room to make Daryl cum. He rocked slowly into the other man's strokes, watching the rough hand tug and squeeze and palm over all the right places.  
  
No one could jerk him off like Daryl, and Rick himself was the only person who could make his cock go off any quicker.  
  
“Faster,” Rick said, already feeling his body tensing up in anticipation. God he couldn't wait to paint that fucking face with his release. Daryl huffed a little with the effort as he pumped, his muscular biceps flexing while he rubbed Rick's sensitive skin vigorously with calloused hands. Rick groaned, forcing his eyes to stay open so he could watch.  
  
So close. So damn close.  
  
Daryl's other hand cupped around his balls, gently rolling them around in his palm, and yes. That.. _That._  
  
Rick groaned from somewhere deep in his belly, his balls drawing up. Right before he felt the first spasm of release hit him, he grabbed Daryl by his hair and pulled his face up, ensuring that not a single drop would miss its intended target as he shot warm streams of cum all over the hunter's face.  
  
Daryl licked a little drop off the corner of his mouth and then wiped his eyelids.  
  
“Hold on,” Rick said, catching his breath before dismounting and zipping up his jeans. He used the already soiled sheet to carefully wipe Daryl's face clean of sweat and release, making sure he didn't smear any into his eyes. “Good?”

“Yeah, think that's all of it,” Daryl said, stretching out some of his sex-loosened muscles. 

“You did real good for me,” Rick said, already starting the little peppering of kisses he always did after they were done. “Thank you.”

“Mhm,” Daryl said, eyes closed. 

“You hurt anywhere?” Rick asked, fingers brushing gently through the dark curls below Daryl's navel.

“Not really. Just a little sore. Normal.” 

“Mm. You need anything? Want anything?”

“Just you,” Daryl said. Rick leaned over and gave him a kiss, gently fingering through his new haircut. 

“Looks so much better,” Rick said. “Gotta feel better too.”

“Maybe,” Daryl said, letting his head roll into Rick's touch. “Lighter and it ain't in my eyes.”

“Nothing should ever be in the way of those eyes,” Rick said, leaning forward and kissing both of Daryl's eyelids. 

“I missed this,” Daryl said. “Missed you.”

“Me too. We're gonna have to figure out a better system than what we have now,” Rick said. “I need you way more than I'm getting you. It's making me tense.”

“Makin you stupid is what it's doin,” Daryl said. Rick didn't answer, but he didn't argue either. “Maybe I could talk to Aaron, see if we can get free reign of the garage every now and then.”

“He know?” Rick asked. 

“Yeah. Didn't seem fair to keep it from him considering. Probably should've asked permission, sorry.” 

“You're okay,” Rick said. “He ain't gonna judge.”

“Nah. But sometimes I wish I hadn't, 'cause now he wants to have guy talk about both our men all the damn time.”

Rick laughed. 

“What'd you tell him?”

“To shut the hell up.”

Rick laughed again, louder this time, the sound reverberating off the walls of the otherwise dead-quiet house. He pulled Daryl closer until the hunter had his head on his chest. 

“I love you, Daryl,” he said.  
  
“I love you too,” Daryl said, nuzzling down a little, his beard scratching against Rick's sternum even through his shirt. The hunter yawned and Rick folded the clean side of the top sheet over onto them both, pushing his own head back into the pillow until it formed around him just right.  
  
They fell silent, letting the night wash away into nothing but the sounds of their breathing and the cicadas filtering in from outside. Then, right on the edge of consciousness, Rick gave his lover a little kiss right in the center of his head, and Daryl craned to look up at him, eyes droopy with sleep.  
  
“Who do you belong to?” the hunter asked quietly.

Rick ran his finger across Daryl's bottom lip, smiling softly when the other man kissed the tip of his thumb.  
  
“You.”

 


End file.
